


Sometimes Pleasure Hurts the Most

by Vrunka



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Sex Pollen, Sort Of, Torture, Voyeurism, involuntary drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Jack knows he shouldn't watch this but that's never stopped him before.





	Sometimes Pleasure Hurts the Most

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly implied R76, established relationship. They don't physically touch in this so sorry if that's misleading and feel free to dip if it's not your thing.
> 
> Heed the warnings please and thank you. This is mostly a vent piece but it's helped chip away some of the writer's block so hallelujah

The feed is scratchy, distorted. Gabe on tape is a phantom, a reaper, dark hood up, shadows under his eyes. Jack's fingers slide across the keyboard, fine-tuning, but only so much can be done like this, remotely. He'll need to get to the camera itself for more adjustments.

He flicks a switch and the sound stutters into being. Tinny. Distant. Something heard from across a room, from behind a door.

"I don't know what you're hoping to gain," Gabe says, "by lying." The video quality is too bad, Jack can only just see the head tilt that goes with it. He can see it in his mind's eye much better. Gabe playing bad cop, neutral cop.

The terrorist shakes his head. The motion is violent. After images in the film. Live feed struggling to keep up.

A slur of Russian over the comm. Jack hasn't been doing his exercises but the intent is clear enough.

Gabe chuckles. The sound is cold. Jack can imagine the smirk. The simmering low down in his belly thinking about it is sick, is fucked, is undeniable.

"Oh yeah?" Gabe asks--been doing his studies, keeping up with languages, his brain more wired for it--crossing his arms. "Well, we'll get there. Eventually. Right now, I'm just asking you to talk. And when you don't. Well." He reaches forward. The instruments seem to glitter. Impossible. Just Jack's nerves making it seem that way. His dry mouth. His sweating palms. He rubs them against his thighs. Shifting the material of his fatigues.

His cock, shamefully, strains against the zipper of his pants. Already so hard and Gabe hasn't even started the bloody part yet. The tough part.

The real, real sick part.

The part he doesn't think Jack knows about.

Jack swallows again, convulsively. Not really listening to the man, babbling away on the tape. Something about Gabe fucking a dog. Something about Gabe's mother. Jack doesn't care to translate cuz it isn't about that for him. That part will come later, all typed out in Gabe's report. That is when that will matter.

"Mhm," Gabe intones, the sound almost lost in the slight static of the feed and the man's hurried insults. His hands pick up the syringe and roll it between his palms.

Drugs is a new angle. Not one Jack is entirely comfortable with. But Gabe is the expert, the practiced hand.

Jack wishes, sickly, that the feed were better as Gabe readies the syringe. The needle gleams, not a trick of Jack's turned on imagination this time.

The man only struggles a little bit as Gabe injects him. His fingers arching on the metal arm of the chair. Arching. Jack swallows. Palms himself without thinking. The body in extremis; Gabriel forcing the body there.

It takes a moment, two, for whatever was in the needle to hit the bloodstream. Jack can see when it does and not just because Gabe steps back to survey his work. The man slumps in the chair. A marionette with the strings cut. And Omnic powered down.

Gabe sighs. The shift of his shoulders is Jack's only clue but Jack recognizes the weariness in the motion. Gabe hates this part, utterly. He hides it because he hates it.

The snap of the rubber gloves filters through the speaker feed, Gabriel adjusting the plastic around his wrists. Jack pops the buttons of his fly, works the pants down enough to slip his cock out of the plackets.

He licks his lips. Then twice more. He has seen this part enough to know the script. The bright blood red of it. Gabe will go for the scalpel; Gabe will bring his awful work.

But for some reason, Gabe doesn't. He hesitates. He cracks his knuckles, it only just makes enough noise to be picked up by the small microphone imbedded in the ceiling.

The man stirs. Makes a noise. Just as quiet as the knuckle cracking had been. High-pitched, like a tea kettle. Whining. The man is whining. So tough a second ago even strapped to the chair the way he had been and now...now he is--

"It's working already," Gabe says, coolly. "Good. Very good. This shouldn't take long." He steps forward, braces a foot on the chair between the man's spread thighs. His body, big and square, blocks much of the man from Jack's view.

"Now then. Don't you want to tell me about the base. How many people are there. How many guns."

Every part of the terrorist that Jack can see is shaking. His fingers. His shoulder. The top of his head. A hiccup resonates over the speaker, a twisted sort of grunt.

"Fuck you," he spits. His voice is trembling. He sounds scared. Gabe shifts and the man keens, curling and horrible and completely, totally aroused.

Jack cannot swallow. Jack cannot breathe. His cock leaks against his palm and he is floating a thousand feet above his own body.

"That...wasn't quite what I was going for but," Gabe smiles, Jack can fucking hear it in his voice. "We'll see what happens. The base. How many men do you have stationed there?"

The question coincides with Gabe moving again and Jack can only imagine, that foot, that booted heavy foot pressing down on the man's totally erect cock. The drugs humming through his system must be some liquid aphrodisiac. Something most likely black market. Not FDA approved.

The man groans. He says something, garbled, voice too full of tears.

"I don't scare you?" Gabe says back in perfect, clipped seriousness. "I guess it's good that I'm not trying to." He leans forward. Whispers something. For a moment Jack can see the Russian's face over Gabe's shoulder. It is white, white, white. A sheet beneath his overgrown beard.

Jack finally manages to drag a breath into his neglected lungs. The air sears his throat. Burns in his nose. He blinks, rapidly. His hand wraps convulsively around his cock. Which is still hard, as hard as it had been when he had expected blood.

Only this, this is so much worse.

He thumbs at the slit. Twists his wrist to push it up towards his stomach. An almost uncomfortable application of pressure.

The man on the feed is crying, wheezing. Jack can hear the thickness through the comm.

"Please," he says, in English again. "Don't."

"Some numbers," Gabe says, "and I won't. How many men. How many guns. How many hostages."

More Russian now. A little desperate. 'I do not know,' Jack recognizes that one.

Gabe is leaning forward again. His shoulder moves. Up and down. Again, motion Jack recognizes. This time from the recorded feed of their room--Jack's room--late at night when the paperwork and the formalities have been laid aside.

The man grunts. Curses. It sounds weak. Pitiful. Mewling. Brought to unwanted pleasure by talented hands. Dragged there by drugs and by force. By force.

Jack's free hand floats over the button to cut the video. The Stop button. The End this Disgusting Practice. The hand on his cock has not stopped moving, pressing and tugging and sliding messy down the length of it.

\--

The file is dropped on his desk. Unceremonious. A paper almost slips out of it, is caught only by Jack's quick reflexes.

Gabriel is frowning. His hands are bare, cradling his own elbows.

"McCree, Shimada and I can take care of it," he says. He sounds tired. "We'll head out first light tomorrow. Be back...I dunno. Three days, tops." He collapses in the chair opposite Jack. One hand drifts to cover his eyes.

His left hand.

Non-dominate.

He'd been using both by the end. Jack bites his lip. Pretends this information he has been handed is new and surprising.

"You got him to talk?"

Gabe grunts. Affirmative. He doesn't move his hand. His chest rises and falls.

"You hurt him?" Jack asks.

Gabe's hand slips down, his gaze meets Jack's. Slowly, very slowly, he shakes his head. "Didnt have to."

Jack licks his lips. Nods. Forces himself to smile. "Good," he says. "That's great."

Gabe returns the grin. Tired. Weary. "Yup," he says. "Great."


End file.
